


SORRY!

by islandgirl_246



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Depression, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26932936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandgirl_246/pseuds/islandgirl_246
Summary: It all matched his mood.Swirling, dark, silent, still. There was a chasm in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t know what to do with. He didn’t know what was wrong. This yawing mass of nothing was eating him alive, from the inside out and he didn’t know what to do anymore. So he looked into the deep waters and it seemed to almost match, even as it failed to calm the dark raging inside.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	SORRY!

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while back and fought with myself over whether to publish. Then I had a really bad end of last year into this year, like not even COVID related, so I finished the edits cause I needed to get out of my head a bit.   
> If you suffer with depression you may be able to relate to the emotions herein, but this may be a bit heavy and definitely dark. So take care of yourself first, if you don’t think this is for you, don’t read it.

His legs dangled over the edge, almost numb by now. His left butt cheek certainly was; but not even the pinching and tingling of nerve endings could get him to shift position as the conversation rolled over and over in his mind.

He knew he hadn’t been wrong. It had been all past time that it should have been said anyhow. _So why could he not get the image of the expression on Peter’s face out of his mind?_ His stomach rolled every time he recalled the blank, blue orbs staring at him like he was some new specimen and not even a particularly interesting one. Maybe like a blob of something one discovered after having accidentally stepped in it . . . No, that wasn’t quite accurate, not quite. Maybe more like the look one got after an incident one wished they could forget. Yeah, that was it. Peter had looked at him like he was a stranger.

 _But he’d been right._ Stiles knew he’d been right.

So why was the crestfallen look that also clouded Derek’s face – the second only thing he could think about?

The Hales were a pain in the ass. Everyone knew that. But yet . . .

Stiles kicked his right foot forward and watched as it swung out and back, out and back, over the dark churning waters below. Waters that were the loudest thing on the deserted street. The road in each direction was patchy with sparse street lighting that seemed to be fighting a losing battle with the dark all around it.

It all matched his mood.

Swirling, dark, silent, still. There was a chasm in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t know what to do with. He didn’t know what was wrong. This yawing mass of nothing was eating him alive, from the inside out and he didn’t know what to do anymore. So he looked into the deep waters and it seemed to almost match, even as it failed to calm the dark raging inside.

It beckoned. It called. And he waited.

Palms curled around the metal railings, he barely felt the cold permeating from steel to skin. He glanced once again, from one side of the street to the other. He was sitting, smack dab in the middle of the bridge with no idea how he’d gotten there. There was nothing but street, trees and darkness as far as his eyes could see. He didn’t recall the trek in the dark after he’d left Peter’s. There was no sign of his trusty, rusty blue, and he briefly wondered where he could possibly have left his jeep.

A frown creased his forehead before the waters called again, a soft gurgle in the night, stealing his attention once more.

\- - - - - -

“Stiles, you’re being slightly ridiculous.” It’d been said in that tone of voice that indicated Peter’s charm, snark and with a little fondness – not too much – blended in. There was a slight curve to one corner of his lips as he’d looked at Stiles with brows raised high.

And then Stiles had opened his mouth and what had come out had crushed them all. He still didn’t understand where it had all bubbled up from. It must have been festering for a while to have come out like that, but at the same time, Stiles still couldn’t find anything too horrible and certainly nothing untrue in what he’d said in response.

 _So why did he feel so dead inside?_ _Why couldn’t he shake this churning mass; this void that threatened to swallow him whole?_ I’d been easier in the past . . . or maybe it was just that he’d wanted to before – had a reason to before, whereas now nothing seemed to penetrate. He couldn’t raise the energy to care. And he didn’t understand it.

He kept returning to the ultimate pain that shone in the blue depths before Peter had shut it all down brutally, the way his face had gone blank then like he used to before . . . like he hadn’t since he and Stiles . . .

“Stiles . . .?” Derek had said his name in that puzzled manner as Peter had walked away, closed himself away in their room leaving him with only his nephew for company. And Stiles had known what he’d said had been equally as painful for Derek to hear. It had no doubt dredged up memories the younger Hale would rather let go of . . . had let go of, until Stiles had opened his mouth and uttered truths.

\- - - - - -

Stiles wanted to wail; wanted to give release to something but nothing came out. He wanted to rip and tear and rend, but he couldn’t raise the strength to care enough to even move. His mind shifted to his dad. He wondered if the man would return to the bottle once he was gone, or if he’d built up enough of a system around him now to sustain him, to hold him up once . . . once Stiles wasn’t there.

And once again, the water called.

\- - - - - -

“Why would you say that to him . . .” Derek’s words faded into an echo in his head, swallowed up by a gurgling that seemed to chuckle in disdain at him.

But it was true. You shouldn’t have to apologise for truths.

 _But is it a truth that needed to be said?_ Yes, yes it was!

 _But why?_ He still couldn’t answer.

His pocket buzzed, as it had constantly for what seemed like forever since he’d been sitting here. He removed it for the first time. Eight missed calls. Twenty-seven text messages. Even three emails.

He opened his fingers and let it all slip away beneath him. The splash wasn’t even audible over the gurgle. The gurgle that seemed to gush its thanks, even as it called again.

“You had no right to make him relive that. Why would you do that?”

He hadn’t had a response for Derek. He didn’t even remember leaving the building. He knew he’d turned from Derek then and reached for the door but from then everything got fuzzy. He’d returned to conscious thought here, which had to be a good half-hour’s walk from Peter’s place, and three hours had passed.

Three hours of not knowing what, if anything he’d done. Three hours unaccounted for. Three hours of missed calls, missed texts, missed emails. The fact that he’d had emails in his phone would indicate he hadn’t been here the whole time. He would have had to be in a WiFi area at some point to have received them. He just couldn’t say where. Only phone calls could reach him out here, which was probably why he’d had eight of them.

He also didn’t know what he was waiting for.

All he knew was pain. So much pain. He just wanted it to go away. He wanted to tell Peter he was sorry. He wanted to tell Derek he hadn’t meant to dreg up their pasts. Certainly not like that. He wanted to tell Peter he’d been the most constant and best thing to have happened to him in a long time, but every time he thought it, it was like a weight on his chest. He was drowning in this pain and he just wanted it to stop.

He gasped, a strangled sob if ever there was one. The first tear trickled down his cheek.

“Sorry . . .” he gasped and let go.

But his feet never touched the rushing depths below. The cold wetness never came. A clawed hand curled around his hand. The hand that moments before had been curled around cold hard metal. The warmth of the hand dragged another sob from his throat and Stiles looked up.

Pained whiskey browns met fearful blues . . .

“I’ve got you,” Peter said. “I’ve got you, Stiles.”

Behind Peter, the sound of pounding feet and the wrenching sounds of his father calling his name drowned out the rushing waters below and the thundering in his ears.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in a better place now, mentally, and trying to get back to writing again. But reading the works of so many talent writers here have been a saving grace for me, so thank you all! You really never know how what you write can be an inspiration to others in dark times.


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